It starts with Coffee
by Gillianandersonwannabe
Summary: Post-IWTB. Mulder wishes he could take away Scully's sadness. This is how he tries on a daily basis.


_**A/N: **Alright, I really, really hope that everyone likes this because I have been working on it FOREVER. I suppose I just really wanted to get it right. Two major things inspired this, the first being a lovely piece called The Thing They Left Til Last, written by seeyoustandingthere. It's one of my very favorite pieces on the site, so I for sure recommend it. The second part of my inspiration was watching IWTB right after watching the Pilot, right after watching The Truth. Like, WOW. The gravity of everything that has changed really hits you, for lack of a better term, like a ton of bricks._

_This fic was incredibly hard to write, so I would appreciate some reviews:)_

_**Disclaimer: **It's called borrowing Chris. I promise I'll give them back in time for XF3.  
_

_Please enjoy!_

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Scully's capacity for pain is incomprehensible.

I remember when that thought first occurred to me. It was when our lips met in that jail cell. She has seen it all, she has been through everything, and yet... This precious, precious woman can still love me.

She is able to scrape the pain off, like snow on a windshield, and still harbor warmth for me.

Sometimes I hate her for that. Sometimes I wish she would blame me, would hate me for everything that's happened to her. I wish she could've forgotten about me and my stupid crusade. Because she doesn't deserve this. Her life was not supposed to be like this. She, out of all people on this planet, deserves a happy life. Instead, she is stripped of everything.

Are some people born only to suffer? Is Ms. Maudie from To Kill A Mockingbird correct in her statement that some people are born to do the unpleasant jobs of the world?

Scully is a good person. It was never meant to be like this. That is why I vowed to myself that everyday I will go to the end of the world to make it up to her in whatever way I can.

It starts with coffee.

I ease out of our bed, my internal clock waking me usually about an hour before her alarm sounds. I pad quietly into the kitchen, even though I know I won't wake her.

Once the coffee is brewing I set about whatever my latest project is. Lately I've discovered that I have a slight green thumb, so I've been decorating our home's interior with floral arrangements. I can tell Scully likes it, even though she's never told me, because of the way her eyes linger on them. I don't know why I don't do the outside. Just habit I guess.

I try to never venture too far from our room though. I need to hear her alarm go off because I always stop it for her. Sometimes it's "Morning Dr. Scully" or "Hey sleepy head", or more often than not, just comfortable silence. One day it might be accompanied by a kiss on the head or a tuck of the hair, but whatever _I _do, it's always met with an incoherent mumble.

I love the way she sounds in the morning.

I leave her to stew in bed, as night owls so often do, just long enough to retrieve a cup of her salvation for her, just the way she likes it. I can tell how her day is going to go by whether she's sitting up or not when I hand it to her.

After that, the best thing for me to do is to let her sort out her own morning. If she wants to read the paper, she'll read it. If she wants breakfast, she'll eat it. If she wants to talk to me, she'll talk to me.

Sometimes I slip a note into her briefcase when she's not looking. She likes that.

When it's cold out I help her into her coat. I whisper into her hair well-wishes for her day. Then she brushes her lips against mine, returning the sentiment. And with that, she's gone.

While she's gone I try to stay as busy as possible. Watch some TV, surf the internet, cut up the paper. I know it makes her upset if she thinks I just mope around all day while shes gone. And I clean. A lot. She loves having a neat and spotless home. It helps her think.

I've also been working on a couple other more secret projects.

The first one is the abandoned guest bedroom. We never really did anything with it, for obvious reasons, so its a large task. It has to be ready in just under two weeks though, because that's when Mrs. Scully is planning on stopping by to surprise her daughter. I can't wait.

The second one is something that I have entitled "The Illustrious History of the FBI Basement." It is exactly what it sounds like; I found that I also quite enjoy writing. It's slow going because I don't want to leave anything out, but it will be very well worth it.

I'm usually in the space that I unofficially dubbed 'my office' when she gets home. I like to hear her open the door, hear her set her things down and make her way towards me. It reminds me of the old days when I would anticipate the muffled ding of the elevator arriving at the very bottom floor.

I long for the old days, back when Scully was young and happy. Her life held so much promise. I used to turn around in my chair and see those blue eyes, so full of light.

Now when I turn around to face her, her smile is a grimace, her eyes, empty.

God, it kills me.

It kills me how she tries to hide it, and it kills me how she knows she can't. It kills me that she knows it hurts me to see her hurt.

I keep thinking and hoping that one day I'll turn around and see that young doe-eyed doctor again.

When I do finally see her we grimace.

"Hi", she'll whisper.

I'll ask her how her day was. I'll ask her mundane questions about patients, doctors, and nurses. She'll lean against the door frame or wander around the room. She'll question me about what I did around the house.

Then I'll make dinner.

Or at least I'll try to. More often than not, Scully finds excuses to help me. "You're not doing that right", or "I'll just set the oven".

Then, together, we sit down to eat. I always pull our her chair for her. Over dinner we usually discuss the latest in paranormal findings.

It's my favorite part of the day because Scully will get that glint in her eyes. I love her for debating with me.

It usually ends in me smirking and her rolling her eyes, with one eyebrow raised.

After we clean up our dinner we watch whats left of the sunset. If it's nice, we'll go outside and swing on the porch. We don't talk, we just sit. We listen to the whispering of mother nature, and to the sound of each other breathing. Quietly, we take in one another.

When the night grows cold we go back inside and lie in bed. Then we kiss.

If she kisses me, things get very heated, very quickly.

If I kiss her, she wants to talk.

It's only during the night that we can talk about the things that truly haunt us. The thickness of the dark swallows our words whole.

That is the most painful time of the day. That's when I have to look at not who Scully is, but what ultimate tragedy has made her.

We've talked about so much, but there's one thing we haven't.

William.

Giving him up... It broke her in a significant way.

That's why I've made it my futile task to 'fix' her. To try and make her whole. To piece her back together and help her to become the woman she should have been able to be.

The injustice takes my breath away.

When I hold her close to me her tears ask of me what she did to deserve this. I don't know how to answer them, so I kiss them all away. Every single one, until she falls asleep.

That's when I can sleep.

And then, the next morning, it begins again.

And it starts with coffee.


End file.
